The Mullah Nasrudin

“What’s bothering you?” he asked.

“My brother, there is nothing interesting in my life. I have enough money not to need to work, and I was traveling to see if there was anything curious in the world. But everyone I [...]]]>

The Mullah Nasrudin

“What’s bothering you?” he asked.

“My brother, there is nothing interesting in my life. I have enough money not to need to work, and I was traveling to see if there was anything curious in the world. But everyone I have met has nothing new to say to me, all they do is make me more bored.

“In a word, I can tell you without any fear of doubt that despite all that I have done, I haven’t managed to find the peace I sought. I have turned into my own worst enemy.”

At that very moment, Nasrudin grabbed the man’s bag and ran off down the road. Since he knew the region well, he quickly managed to set a considerable distance from the man by taking shortcuts through the fields and over the hills.

When he was far enough away, he put the bag down in the middle of the road where the traveler was bound to pass, and hid behind a rock. The man appeared half an hour later, feeling more miserable than ever because of the thief he had come across.

As soon as he caught sight of the bag, he ran to open it, breathless. Upon seeing that everything was intact, he looked up to the sky full of joy and thanked the Lord for life.

“Certain people only realize the taste of happiness when they manage to lose it,” thought Nasrudin, looking at the scene before his eyes.

Focus on the mantra until it you can self sustain it non vocally. Keep it going until it has [...]]]> Adopt a comfortable, meditative position. Close your eyes and start a mantra sequence (For the purposes of this exercise I pick something pretty random, usually a sequence of consonanted sounds; ka da ma ta ha, for example)

Focus on the mantra until it you can self sustain it non vocally. Keep it going until it has a momentum all of it’s own, then dissociate… imagine that you step out of and away from your body so that you can see yourself and hear the mantra coming from the location you see yourself sat in.

Move further backwards and forwards until the volume and feel of the mantra is comfortable for you. In this spot, in imagination, sit down and start a new mantra (we are working simultaneously with a dissociated and associated self representation here). Be aware of the original mantra sequence cycling round as you initiate the new mantra layer. Again, keep it going until it and the original mantra are both self sustaining, then dissociate again…

Repeat

This is a meditation experiment aimed at developing a deep state of trance in which intentionality and volition remain enabled. The exercise is also part of personal research into multiple trance loops… it seems they can be mutiple and parallel, or multiple and embedded. The levels of recursion one is comfortable with grow with practice.

plant them they will grow watch them waver so

Jim Morrison, American Prayer

It has been suggested in a forum I contribute too that words only have the power that we give them. This is an idea that I would like to explore on several levels. I’m not proposing a certitude either way, I’m [...]]]>

Words dissemble
words be quick
words resemble
walking sticks

plant them
they will grow
watch them waver so

Jim Morrison, American Prayer

It has been suggested in a forum I contribute too that words only have the power that we give them. This is an idea that I would like to explore on several levels. I’m not proposing a certitude either way, I’m just very cautious of coming down to such a binary conclusion.

Words are strange things. I recall a Reith Lecture in which the neurologist Vilayanur S. Ramachandran demonstrated a synaesthetic relationship between word sounds and visual and kinesthetic senses. By showing people two pictures, one of a soft rounded amoeba-like shape, and the other of a spiky, sharp spiny shape, and telling them that one was called a booba and the other a kikki before asking them to identify which they thought was which, he demonstrated that in excess of 90% of people would associate the word booba with the soft rounded shape and the word kikki with the spikey shape. While I’m guessing we could account for this through a learned cultural phenomenon, Ramachandran’s studies into the phenomenon of synesthesia have lead him to conclude that low level synesthesic experiences are common, even normal, and that the root of language development in our species may in part be attributed to this experience which appears to be genetically determined.

So it seems plausible, even likely, that the experience of hearing a word works on at least two levels.

First is the level of sound. But even the experience of hearing that sound goes beyond the sense of hearing itself, and includes visual and kinesthetic experiences at least internally and some of these experiences are common to most of us, independently of culture and learning.

Secondly is the learned meaning of the word, which will overlay the first experience with further visual and kinesthetic representations and associations. But this second experience will have two components… firstly the learned meaning, the received understanding of the word passed down through learning… the definition. Secondly, our own associations of meaning associated with the word. We all know what the word “Father” means, on the first level…. and we all use the word according to a set of rules that allow us to apply it consistently and make sense of that meaning. But do I truly know what the word “Father” means to you? Do I know what the experience of being parented entailed and what associations that word may have, what emotion you may put behind the word?

From the point of view of words having a “magical” inherent power, power over us and power over (maybe) the external world, independent of the power that we give them, I’m most interested in the first point… words working on the level of sound. The second point, about the learned meaning and experience associated with words, is more associated with the power that we give words… but even that is a power not to be dismissed lightly, a power that derives not just from a life filled with association meaning and story, but from the life of the community, the evolution of our language itself; to suggest that we give words that sort of power is only to suggest that it is human derived, it is not to suggest that it is something we can “give” and “take back” lightly. It isn’t.

Tantric sources distinguish between lettered and unlettered sound, and sanskit is interesting because of its direct association with a concept of the subtle body through the chakra system (where by letters/sounds from the Sanskrit system are associated with “petals” of the chakra) and with a complex understanding of the process of coming into being of all existence, of manifestation from the primal source

A very profound doctrine is connected with these Letters which . . . . . . . has been set out in greater detail in the Serpent Power (Kundalini) which projects Consciousness, in Its true nature blissful and beyond all dualism, into the World of good and evil. The movements of Her projection are indicated by the Letters subtle and gross which exist on the Petals of the inner bodily centers or Lotuses.
Sir John Woodroffe, Shakta and Shakti

What is interesting is the way in which Sanskrit letter sounds or phonemes can be arranged according to the part of the mouth used to form the sound. There is a clear correlation between the location of the mouth used and the location of the chakra, so phenomes formed at the rear of the mouth are associated with higher level chakra in the body.

This interests me because psychologists understand that we perceive vowel sounds differently that we perceive sounds formed at the back of the mouth, round, ooo or oh sounds as larger than sounds formed at the front such as ee sounds. Recent research for example seems to show that this effect can be expoited to create a false perception of the size of a price discount… Products with “small-sounding” sale prices (like $2.33) seemed like better deals than products with “big-sounding” sales prices (like $2.22) with the former perceived, on average, as a discount of 28.1% on $3 and the latter as a discount of 24.13% discount on $3! Clearly the discount on the former is significantly less than the latter, but the effect of the sound on our perception of the size of the cost has a direct impact on our judgement. This effect appears to be cross cultural. In another experiment, the researchers used a pair of sale prices — $7.88, which sounds “big” in English, and $7.01, which sounds “small” — but are the other way around in Chinese. Chinese and English speakers had opposite perceptions of the products’ relative value. While this research is not yet released formally and is reported in a newspaper (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/18/business/18drill.html) it is none the less indicative of a psychological power that resides in words beyond the simply learned.

Moving even further in to the realms of speculation, we can wonder where such responses to sound-in-language came from. I strongly suspect that they are evolved responses and they they are pre-linguistic. As a species evolves, it’s neurology develops to respond to sensory stimuli in particular ways to adapt it to its environment. So somewhere along the line we have evolved to associate certain sound “shapes” (in this example “oooo” and “eee”) with an internal perception of size (and probably more).

It can be an interesting experience to stand in an empty room and close your eyes, before starting to intone vowel sounds, resonating different parts of the body and paying attention to the internal sensory experience.

So, so far we have considered a range of effects that words and lettered sound may have upon us as human animals at a psychological level. It isn’t clear how these effects relate to language and its development, but it would make sense to assume that we have a somewhat chicken and egg scenario… where (from Ramachandran and others) internal experiences of sounds correspond to external world experiences beyond the onomatopoeic and into the realm of true synesthesia as a mode of engaging with experience.

Words

• Have a learned effect
• as language, learned meaning
• according to the way that they are layered with personal and individual meaning from life experience
• and an unlearned effect, yet still psychological
• as sound creates consistent internal experiences that engage the full sensory spectrum, an internal landscape

I haven’t even made a start on considering the direct physical effects that the vibrations of words are capable of having on the human and other animal. On the whole, I strongly suspect that this can be discounted in any real empirical sense… the world bathes us in the experience of sound vibration all the time, and words make up a minute proportion of that experience, and I suspect that there is no correlation between any physical effect and the development of language (though I wouldn’t immediately discount the possibility in some contexts). However, in specific ritualistic contexts, when experiential variables are highly controlled, and those present are functioning in highly altered states of consciousness, I don’t think we can entirely rule out the possibility that direct physical experience of vibration of words could have a very specific and manipulable effect.

I don’t plan to leave this here… I would like to cover other related areas… the use of a person’s “true name” in folklore or the use of specific words of power, for one. And a consideration of the animated nature of words, words with spirit, for another. But in the mean time I would like to leave you with a video. I don’t know if you have ever come across the phenomena of Chladni plates before. A Chladni plate is a metal plate undergoing forced vibration and creating 2D standing wave patterns… granules of a fine material are placed on the plate and gather at the points where the plate undergoes least vibration. The artist in this video used this phenomena to engage artistically with her voice and the geometrical patterns created.

Belyn ap Madoc, a prince of Merioneth, had been reading the Triads, and afterwards pondered deeply upon [...]]]> The following is a tale I found on a website that doesn’t exist any more… I do not know its provenance (and would be grateful if anyone knows it), but I thought it worth the telling here

Belyn ap Madoc, a prince of Merioneth, had been reading the Triads, and afterwards pondered deeply upon the one in which it is recorded:-

“The three Blessed Astronomers of the Island of Britain – Idris, the Great; Gwydion, son of Don; end Gwyn, son of Nudd – so great was their knowledge of the stars, and of their natures and influences, that they could foretell whatever any one might wish to know till the day of judgment.”

What attracted his attention most, was that “they could foretell whatever any one might wish to know till the day of judgment.”

At the same time, Belyn by no means wished to know future events so far as the day of judgment. In truth that was, he thought, going a little too far; but his ambition was to know if ever he would become a great man, a “leader of men,” like the renowned Glendower. Then he suddenly remembered the old story, wherein it was stated that whoever slept for one night in the Chair of Idris would, as people said, “go mad,” or awaken gifted with inspiration – some said poetical, others said astrological, while some declared it was a little of each, seeing that poets, seers, and madmen are closely allied.

Whatever the inspiration was, Belyn coveted it, and set about the right way of obtaining, as he thought, a “peep into the future.”

Belyn, taking sufficient provisions to sustain himself during his pilgrimage, started in ample time to reach the summit of Cader-Idris early in the afternoon. Very beautiful, though toilsome, was the route upward from Dolgelly; but, though the scenery was grand and impressive, few people in those troublous times heeded the beauties of nature. Grim chasms, beetling crags, and towering rocks overhanging solitary ravines, or looking downward over long stretches of rich pastures and thymy uplands where the heather was not yet in blossom, and the slopes were strewn with fading petals of the golden gorse – had little charm for the rough and uncultured mountaineers of that period, or for the men who were ready to take up arms with or against Owen Glendower.

Belyn, after many pauses to rest on the upward way, gained the summit, and for a short interval stood to look down upon the vast panorama below.

It was a grand and impressive scene. Amid warm mists and heated vapours the July sun crept stealthily, and almost thief-like, behind the western mountains, as though his golden orb was being watched and his precious darts had a price set upon them.

Belyn was dazzled by the sight, as he gazed and gazed, until the great sun sank below the peaks of the west. For him the western distance held no charms beyond the freedom of the sea, so like his own restless heart, and the grandeur of the wild coast, so like his own wild and uncurbed nature. The north was his home, and his soul clung to that with all the ardour of a Welshman. But the south, down there about and beyond the Berwyn mountains, held a wonderful charm for him, for there at present the great and renowned Owen Glendower congregated his followers.

As the last rays of the setting sun blazed above the purple mountains, and the last shafts of golden light glanced like lances between the sharp peaks and splinty spires of the west, Belyn moved towards the Chair, at the foot of which he took a seat.

Not far above him eagles poised on their wings, ready to descend in a “fell swoop” into the valleys below, and on the crags around him vultures congregated as if in solemn conclave, while, lower down, kestrel and kite wheeled wildly in the evening air.

Far, far below, lake and river and stream looked like orbs and ribbons of silver in emerald settings while over all the tardy twilight threw a veil of pale and delicate opal and purple tints. Soon the light, circling clouds, like masters of magic, wove spells around the great mountains, and then Belyn felt himself altogether cut out from the lower world.

Soon afterwards, nerving himself for the occasion, Belyn took his seat in what is called the Chair.”

Night approached, and while dark clouds circled below the peak, above, in the clear purple sky, the stars came out and sparkled like jewels. And then Belyn thought within himself, No wonder that Idris Gawr (Great) had come there in dateless days far above the world to watch the stars. Then there came to his mind once more the enthralling words of the ancient Triads – “Idris the Great; Gwydion, son of Don; and Gwyn, son of Nudd. So great was their knowledge of the stars, and of their natures and influences, that they could foretell whatever any one might wish to know till the day of judgment.”

“So far,” he whispered under his breath, for the very thought overpowered him with awe. “So far,” he repeated, as a shudder passed through his frame and the night wind played around his fevered brow, and cooled his heated brain that throbbed with a wild unrest.

At last, when the first sense and symptoms of drowsiness began to oppress him, he tried to ward them off. For, in truth, although he came up there to get the magic sleep, – ah! now it had come to the rub, he feared the nameless horror of – madness

What if he should go mad – yes, mad, and die out there on the heights alone, and far from kith and kin; or worse still, become a wild and sense-reft wanderer among the mountains, or time-driven and brain-consumed skeleton, to descend like an evil spirit among his people, and prove himself to be a living example of one who had dared more than a mortal should?

No; he would not sleep in the Chair of Idris. He would remain awake, and descend from the great and gloomy peak as soon as the day-dawn appeared.

Suddenly, and without warning, he found himself in utter darkness. Oh, the horror of it! He stretched forth his hands as if to grasp some friendly rock or ledge, but in vain. What was worse, it was a thick darkness, in which he gasped for breath. He thought he must soon be suffocated.

One moment he shivered with the cold until his teeth chattered ; the next he was burning with fever heat, until his pulse throbbed as though ready to burst with liquid fire.

Alas! that he ever was so foolish as to venture to the Chair of Idris, and, after all, be unable to sleep in it.

Surely they were mad who had said, that “he who slept for one night in the Chair of Idris would awaken gifted with poetical or astrological inspiration,” when there was no sleep to be had in the hated spot.

Presently to his great relief the darkness seemed to decrease, and he hailed a faint grey glimmering light, as one who, clinging to a shattered spar on mid-ocean, greets a distant sail.

Belyn was almost frantic with delight.

The grey light developing revealed gigantic forms, and Belyn began to think of Idris the Great, of Gwydion the son of Don, of Gwyn the son of Nudd, and last, but not least, of the Brenin Llwyd the Grey King, who, they said, seated himself among the mountain peaks and discovered the secrets of the stars.

Belyn then heard the sound as of uncurbed floods let loose, and the rushing of waters, and the noise of many conflicting winds. He remembered he truly was near the “fountain of the waters, and the cradle of the winds.”

Out of what he thought to be the dim morning twilight, a voice came, and this is what it said “When thou hast secrets to keep, dost thou know where to keep them?”

Another voice answered in hollow tones, “No.”

“Trust them to the depths of the ocean; trust them to the rocky fastnesses of the mountains trust them to the lone star distance, but not to fellow-mortal!”

Belyn sighed. It was a relief and yet not quite a pleasure, to hear these strange and unearthly voices.

“Hast thou ambition? ” again questioned the greater voice.

“Ay! Ay!” responded the lesser voice.

“Place it on the flower of the field, and it will wither; plant it in the furrows with the grain, and it will be blighted; set it in the sweet affections of thy heart, and it will turn to wormwood and gall; let it follow the warrior, and it will end in conflict, in death, in dust!”

Then another voice chaunted:

“Few win renown!
The monarch’s crown
Is worn in pain!
The warrior’s strength
Is spent at length,
In vain, in vain!”

Belyn almost groaned. His ambition was to follow Glendower, and, like him, to become a leader of men – a mighty warrior – an everlasting world-name.

One of the mysterious people appeared to divine his thoughts, for, after a pause, the greater voice cried: “Beware, rash youth, beware of warfare, of battle, of woe, while yet no thread of silver is seen in thy dark curling hair. We know thy wishes. They are to go forth to battle – to earn a mighty name, and to come home victorious and triumphant, be not rash. Many will go forth and few will return. Go home, and try not to learn the secrets of the stars. The greatest inspiration is to do good to thy neighbours as to thyself, to be true to thyself and thus be true to all men – to help the helpless, to comfort the sorrowful, to give food to the hungry, and to do well in the sphere of life in which thou wast born.”

Then the voice ceased, the gigantic figures slowly vanished with the morning mists, and the sun was shining when Belyn aroused himself. He was stiff and sore after the night spent in the Chair of Idris, and he began to wonder that during the unearthly watch, or sleep, or dream, or whatever it was, he had not truly “gone mad.” As for inspiration, he was quite sure he had received sufficient never again to venture upon such a foolish and daring expedition.

Slowly, but in a thankful spirit, he descended homeward.

“Where hast thou been?” asked the few wayfarers who met him on the downward path.

“Up the mountain-side,” said Belyn.

“He’s been sayin’ his prayers,” said some jeering fellows lower down.

Yet Belyn left them alone.

“Hast been among the eagles?” asked a neighbour nearer home.

Belyn remained silent. At length he approached home, and by this time the twilight began to descend slowly upon the earth. He paused to look back, and upwards towards Cader-Idris, and it seemed to him as though the grey and gigantic figures once more stood there and gazed kindly downward. Distance softened their outlines, and, instead of being objects of terror, they appeared to be stretching forth their arms as if breathing a benediction upon all below.

When he reached his father’s partially ruined stronghold beyond Dolgelly, sad thoughts once more oppressed him, for the home, which had been a noble fortress in the days of Edward the First, bore many traces of stern resistance and pitiful defeat; and Belyn wondered after all, if it were not better to live in peace, and let the chances of war to the brave, but wild warriors of Wales.

Musing in this manner, he paused where the dark portcullis threw its sheltering shadows around him, and night wandered soberly into the deserted courtyard.

Suddenly he heard sounds of revelry in the banqueting-hall, and the words of Owain Cyveiliog, the poet-prince of Powys, rang in his ears:-

“Fill thou the horn, for it is my delight in the place where the defenders of our country drink mead, and give it to Sclyt the Fearless, the defence of Gwygyr. Woe to the wretch who offends him, eagle-hearted hero, and to the son of Madoc, the famous and generous Tudwr, like a wolf when he seizes his prey, is his assault on the onset. Two heroes, who were sage in their councils but active in the field, the two sons of Ynyr, who on the day of battle were ready for the attack, heedless of danger famous for their exploits. Their assault was like that of strong lions, and they pierced their enemies like brave warriors; they were lords of the battle, and rushed foremost with their crimson lances; the weight of their attack was not to be withstood. Their shields were broken asunder with much force, as the high-sounding wind on the beach of the green sea, and the encroaching of the furious waves on the coast of Talgarth. Fill, cupbearer, as thou regardest thy life . . . the Hirlais drinking horn, . . . and bring it to Tudwr the Eagle of Battles; . . . give it in the hand of Moreiddig, encourager of songs . . . ”

Belyn marvelled as to the meaning of all this noise and revelry, the sound of the harp; the voice of Gruffydd, the family harpist, and the wild and frequent bursts of applause. In a pause of the song he went onward, and, wishful to remain unseen, sought the shadows where, like an eavesdropper, he lingered beside the least-used and garden entrance of the great hall.

Once more Gruffydd swept his fingers along the harp-chords, and resumed his song :-

“Pour, cupbearer, from a silver vessel, an honourable badge of distinction. On the great plains of Gwestine I have seen a miracle, to stop the impetuosity of Gronwy was more than a task for a hundred men. . . They met their enemies in the conflict, and their chieftain was consumed by fire near the surges of the sea. . . Pour the horn to the warriors, Owain’s noble heroes, who were equally active and brave. They assembled in that renowned place where the shining steel glittered; . . . hear ye, by drinking mead, how the lord of Cattraeth bent with his warriors in defence of his just cause, the guards of Mynyddawe, about their distinguished chief. . . . Pour out, cupbearer, sweet and well-drained mead. . . from the horns of wild oxen covered with gold, for the honour and the reward of the souls of those departed heroes. . .”

Then there was another pause, more like a sacred and solemn hush than anything else, in which only the sounds of the swords as they were being sheathed could be heard, after which the tune was changed. Instead of wild martial music, Gruffydd played a soft and subdued interlude in a minor key, which seemed to soothe the warlike spirits of all present. A moment later, the aged and snowy-haired harpist recommenced singing: “Of the numerous cares that surround princes no one is conscious here but God and myself. The man who neither gives nor takes quarter, and cannot be forced by his enemies to abide to his word, Daniel the valiant and beautiful. Oh, cupbearer, great is the task to entreat him; his men will not cease dealing death around him until he is mollified. Cupbearer, our shares of mead are to be given us equally before the bright shining tapers. . . Cupbearer, slight not my commands. May we all be admitted into Paradise by the King of Kings!”

Song ceased, and, looking through the doorway, Belyn saw that the warriors lances had been laid aside, swords were in their scabbards, and gold- and silver-bordered shields were heaped together in a corner of the hall. He heard his father Madoc calling, “My son-where is Belyn, my son – why tarries he so long – we wait his coming, as the thirsty flowers wait the approach of the life-giving dews, or the refreshing rain!”

It was enough for the wanderer, who rushed forward, and immediately found himself locked closely in his father’s arms.

When the mutual greetings were over, Madoc, whispering a word to the stern warrior sitting beside him, placed his son’s hand in his.

“For the sword and the honour of Wales!” shouted Madoc, and all the warriors united in one wild outburst of applause.

Belyn looked bewildered.

“My son – my only son,” exclaimed Madoc. “I proudly give thy hand, and, if need be, thy life, into the keeping of our noble leader – Owen Glendower!”

Belyn dared scarcely glance upward. So much for his dreams of peace!

Unasked, he was placed – and by his own father – in the hands of Owen Glendower, whose deeds he so recently wished to emulate.

After some formalities, he found himself pledged to accompany wherever he went, and to defend the leader of the great rebellion against the English king, Henry the Fourth.

When Belyn took his seat beside his father, the words of the mysterious speaker rang in his ears: “Many will go forth, and few will return.”

He was not a coward, but his new dreams of peace were dispelled, not by his own wish, but by his father’s all-powerful will. Then he thought of the grim monitor who said, “Do well in the sphere of life in which thou wast born,” and, taking up the broken threads of his hopes, he made a resolution to try and do his best, even in taking up arms under the direction of Owen Glendower.

Fiercely the conflict raged. Wild yells and frenzied shouts of the living, and the sighs and groans of the wounded and dying, mingled with the ringing clash of arms, made day discordant, and, as evening approached, they increased rather than diminished.

Only the sea was at peace.

Scarcely a ripple marred the serene surface of Cardigan Bay, and the wavelets seemed almost too lazy to roll along the sands, or to glide in and out among the rocks under Harlech.

On sea and land, the red sun shed a lurid glow that deepened towards the setting, and illuminated the distant peaks with its beacon fire.

Darkly in the crimson sunset, the serried hosts fought and wavered, each pause being only the signal for still more desperate attacks.

Here and there, on the fringes of the field, cowled monks and solemn friars waited the result of the warfare – waited ready to administer reviving cordials and soothing remedies to the wounded and the dying.

Here and there, hovering around the mountains, fierce eagles and hungry vultures waited, ready to descend for prey, while hoarse-voiced ravens croaked in response to hooded crows that stalked the lonely shore while waiting for carnage.

In the front of the fray, Owen Glendower urged his men to unceasing action, while the opposing hosts fought and faltered, then rallied and wavered weakly before the overwhelming force of the enemy.

On, on pressed Glendower and his men, as they scaled the heights and looked down on their comrades.

Suddenly the red sun seemed with renewed strength to glare upon the terrible scene, and, as a vivid flash of sunset light shot across the field, a fierce, ringing cry rent the air, and the warriors on the heights signalled victoriously to their comrades, who rushed forward and upward in ecstasy.

The vanquished force wavered for a, moment, then rallied, and made one supreme effort onward, but it was too late. They were crushed back by superior and overwhelming numbers, and fell lifeless on the field.

Harlech was taken, and Owen Glendower held the castle.

That night, when the slender crescent of the next moon pierced the dark blue sky, and the star of strength shone steadily above Harlech Castle, and the star of love gleamed peacefully over the calm waters of Cardigan Bay, Belyn the son of Madoc lay wounded among his comrades. Two years had passed since his father gave him to Glendower and warfare, and there was not a braver soldier in the service of rebellion. He had fought in several great battles, yet, in this -which they only regarded as a skirmish – he was wounded, and as he thought – “unto death.”

He found himself, with others, among some mounds close under the castle, just where the grass was thickest, and the shadows were darkest.

Belyn felt as though he had been in that position for nights instead of about two hours, when a voice aroused him with – “If thou wouldst have comfort and shelter, follow me.

“I cannot,” he murmured wearily. “My wounds are great and will not permit me to move.

Whereupon the stranger said, “I will lift thee;” and forthwith Belyn found himself raised in the great arms of one who appeared to have Herculean strength.

It was but a short way across the fields to carry the living burden, and the stranger soon deposited him in the comfortable and spacious kitchen of an ancient farmhouse.

Belyn was surprised at his good fortune, but his wounds were so great, and his strength so little, that he could not question nor make comment of any kind.

In a few days those that remained of the vanquished left the neighbourhood, and Glendower’s men held the castle while their leader pressed onward.

When all was quiet again, and the wounded had either recovered or died on the field, and Belyn was able to sit up, he found that he was in the house of an old friend whom he had not seen since his childhood.

Gwilym ap Howel had been his father’s firmest friend in days gone by, and had left Dolgelly for Anglesea to inherit estates.

“Thy father would little look for me here,” said Gwilym sorrowfully. “Fallen fortunes and loss have brought me to this place, where I would fain live during the remainder of my days in peace, surrounded by my good wife and children. Mine has been a life of trouble and foolish expenditure of time in fighting, and all to no purpose, save that of diminishing my means.”

At that moment a merry-eyed maiden entered the room, and, tripping gaily up to her father, asked when the stranger would be able to join them “at meals.”

Without answering her, Gwilym said, “This is my little daughter Elined. As soon as thou art able to quit thy couch, I will give thee into her care. She is as good a nurse of those that are on a fair way to recovery, as her mother is to those who are wounded or in dangerous illness.”

Thus it proved.

When Belyn was able to walk a little, who should lead him but Elined, and by and by it came to pass that the two became inseparable companions.

Hours ran into days, and days merged into weeks, still Belyn remained there. Love and peace went hand in hand, while rebellion, and the sound thereof vanished from the shores of Cardigan Bay.

But the longest day has its end, and the time came when Belyn, the son of Madoc, must go from under Gwilym ap Howel’s kindly roof.

When the morning for the young man’s departure came, shadows lurked around Elined’s dark eyes, her red lips drooped unusually downward, and instead of her sprightly manner, her movements flagged.

Noticing this, Gwilym tenderly said, “We are all sorry to see thee going. But come again. Thou wilt always be well received.”

Belyn saluted his host and hostess and their family in the fashion of those days, and with a suitable escort went homeward.

For many days afterwards, Elined drooped like a flower bereft of sunshine, and then her parents knew that her heart had gone with Belyn the son of Madoc.

In the stronghold of Madoc there was great rejoicing at the only son’s return, and when the feasts were over the father said, “Thou shalt go no more in the train of the great Glendower, but take to thyself a wife, and remain here in peace.

Then the truth came out that the world held but one woman for him, and when the son of Madoc named her, his kinsman said, “It is but right that Belyn – from Beli, the sun – should wed Elined, Luned, or Lunet – the moon.”

Belyn, accompanied by a brilliant retinue, soon returned to Harlech, and asked Gwilym ap Howel for his daughter’s hand, at the same time adding mirthfully, he knew he had “already obtained her heart.”

When Belyn returned home with Elined his bride, few wondered she had charmed him, for she was “passing fair.”

In the future Belyn had every reason to be thankful that his father “gave him to Glendower,” for thereby he obtained a good and beautiful wife.

Belyn never again troubled himself about the Triad that says – “So great was their knowledge of the stars, and of their natures and influences, that they could foretell whatever any one might wish to know till the day of judgment.” But even to his dying hour he remembered that night in the Chair of Idris.

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